Myrddin and the Irin: Stolen Memories
by silverteal
Summary: This story takes place not long after the young Myrddin, who would later become the war mage known as John Pritkin, has been taken to live in the realm of his father, the demon Lord Rosier, and is still learning about his new home.


_This story is an homage to the works of the great Karen Chance. Neither her world nor her characters belong to me._

 _This is an expression of a tiny head cannon that has been rattling around in my mind for years..._

 **Myrddin and the Irin, Stolen Memories**

"Try this, Son. Try it. You'll enjoy it, I promise!"

Anything that Rosier was that enthusiastic about his doing made Myrddin a little wary. He had not known his father long, but already he had learned that their values were very different.

The ornate goblet Rosier held out to him was beautiful, but the sculptured surface and extensive gilding somewhat obscured the contents. The liquid seemed to swirl with color even when the glass was not moving.

"Emrys! Just drink this. Is that so much to ask?" Rosier was impatient and a bit more pettish than usual.

Myrddin accepted the goblet and peered down into the liquid. Was it clear, or…what color was that. It was certainly beautiful but still..it made him feel a trifle uneasy, though he could not have said why. It was not as though his father was likely to poison him. Still...

He took a deep breath and lifted the goblet to his lips.

"Don't sip it! Drink it all down at once!"

He did. The feeling as indefinable. The liquid was tasteless…wasn't it? He was not sure.

He began to feel pressure and then pain across his shoulders. Something was pressing out of his body from the inside, finally tearing loose through the back of his costly embroidered robe.

The pain abruptly ended in a few seconds, and he became aware of something unfolding from his upper back. In peripheral vision he could see feathery white wings (?) taller than the top of his head. Automatically he raised them higher to keep from dragging on the mosaic floor.

"What?!"

"You have imbibed a soul. For a few hours, you will be able to savor the memories of another being, an Irin. The powers will not last, and the wings will eventually melt away, but for now you will be able to fly and to experience life as the winged creature whose soul you drank."

Rosier poured a similar swirling liquid into a goblet of his own, then drank it down. He smiled.

"Come, we'll rest on the terrace for a few minutes while our wings harden, and then we'll fly out over the city. I have many things to show you."

Rosier seemed smug, proud if himself for providing a grand experience to his newly arrived son, but as the implications slowly dawned on him, Myrddin began to feel a little sick.

"Someone died for this, didn't they?"

"Why yes, of course. How else could we drink their souls?"

"Did you kill them? What was their crime?"

"No, of course not. I didn't drain them myself. I bought them from a potion dealer in the Shadowlands. I have no idea whether they committed any sort of crime. I doubt it. Most likely they were simply unlucky.

"There's no need to look at me that way. I didn't kill them."

Myrddin glared at his father and stalked over to the rail of the terrace, where he silently stared out over the vast city of Darr Alim. He had already learned there was no use arguing with Rosier. The demon had no conscience, didn't even seem to grasp the concept. He simply did whatever he wished.

Myrddin fervently hoped that he would never become like Rosier. But he feared that he would. If he stayed here long enough….

Suddenly the memories, someone else's memories, overwhelmed him. The Irin had known he was about to die. He was furious but he also grieved for his family, who would miss him and never know what had happened to him—his younger brother, his little daughter, his young son, and his wife…

For a moment, Myrddin remembered the birth of a dark-haired baby, and then another. He remembered toddlers climbing all over a laughing boy, their beloved young uncle. He wanted to weep for them all, this close and happy family who would never be happy again. And he was not entirely sure which feelings belonged to the soul he had swallowed, and which were his own.

"Come, our wings are ready. Step up on the railing and fly with me. The Irin's soul will take over and you'll already know how." Rosier stepped up and then glided out over the precipitous drop. He gently flapped his huge, borrowed gray wings and turned in a circle to face Myrddin, lazily winging in place for a moment.

"Come on!"

Myrrdin did.

 _...Later, in the Shadowlands..._

"And that is my secondary palace. I will introduce you to that court on another day."

"I want to see where you got the potion."

"It's not a potion. It's simply a liquid soul."

"Where did you get it?"

"Ah, you liked it! I knew you would. There is really no need for you to go the the potion shop yourself. That's rather beneath us. You simply send someone."

"Nonetheless, I would like to see it, if you don't mind." Myrddin's tone was polite, but there was steel just underneath the surface.

Rosier sighed in a slightly put-upon way. "All right. I suppose the knowledge could be valuable to your human side, since you are a mage. I will take you if you promise never to go there alone. Always take with you a trusted servant or two, preferably good fighters. Come along."

Rosier launched himself into the air and Myrddin followed. They flew halfway across the ever-changing city of the Shadowlands and landed outside a run-down-looking shop in a questionable neighborhood. Rosier glanced around, casually surveying the surroundings, and then sauntered inside.

A small, pudgy old man emerged from a back room and hurried forward to bow deeply before Rosier. "My lord! You honor us with your exalted presence. Is there anything in particular that you seek today?"

"My son was curious about your shop and asked to see it. Emrys, this is Syd, the potion seller. This is his shop."

Myrddin already knew better than to bow, as though to an equal. He inclined his head graciously, as he had been taught, as the potion seller bowed deeply to him, just a shade less deeply than he had bowed to Rosier, as was fitting.

"Ah," said the somewhat creepy little shop owner, "I see you are enjoying two of my finer specimens. I hope they have pleased you."

"Very well. Quality merchandise, as usual. All right, we must go, Myrddin. You have seen the shop.

"Syd." Myrddin nodded to the shopkeeper politely.

Rosier was already turning to leave.

"Thank you for the honor of your visit, my lords. I hope to serve you again whenever you have need of anything I can supply," the little shop owner gushed.

And they left. It was quite dark outside now, and the street was unlighted.

"We must hurry now, before the wings—"

Myrrdin never heard the attackers. Suddenly he was slammed to the ground, and a tearing pain seared his shoulders as the wings were ripped away.

He could hear someone beating Rosier, a few shrieks, running steps, and then suddenly there was silence.

"I will let you live, filthy demon, because I know you yourself did not drain my brother. I have heard that you are new to the hells, and half human. There may be hope for you to overcome the influence of your father and become a civilized being.

A tall, winged man stood over Myrddin, stern and angry, yet graceful and…beautiful, with long, shining dark hair and gleaming wings.

"You will notice that he has slipped away to save himself and left you to pay for his crime as well as your own. I know he was the instigator. And I foresee that one day you will put him in his place."

"And so your punishment is the pain that will linger long after your wounds have healed, and the scars that will mark you for the rest of your miserable life."

Myrddin was silent with pain, shame—and fury at the slimy Rosier.

He recognized the Irin who towered over him. It was the younger brother of the Irin whose wings he had worn.

His punishment was more than fair. It was merciful.

And he would never forget, as long he lived.


End file.
